Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Yes, Sancho, now that I am seeing a therapist lady I see how you, noble busboy of this storied knight-errant barkeep, you too are therapeutic. Someone to talk to, to bring out my deepest and most noble of thoughts and then to reflect upon them, watering the ground that more seed may sprout.

Have you ever observed the family dynamic? Well, yes, of course you have. When everyone wishes for the same basic thing, accommodation, love, a sharing, bringing one's own unique personal tastes into play. And then what happens, in through the chinks, come crossed signals, miscommunications, well-intentioned efforts that lead to the misfiring of wishes. And so, when you find someone you want to share good things and love with, but then fall, because of the fondness of those wishes dear to the heart, into miscommunications, such as might happen between a slow, thoughtful country boy, and a lively fast-minded beauty of the city, i.e., a girl used to that pushy New Yorker mode, 'order now, speak up, or get out of the way, me first, that whole way of life, it is because of the obvious miscommunications that love actually deepens, almost impossibly. And because of it all, we say to ourselves, on the deepest of levels, ah-haaa, this person must be family--look!

Would that we were not all so separate, so that we could express our deep love and our wishes for the other's perfect well-being, so to lift the other up to the finest of life as we wish, by out inherent nature, unselfishly, without a single thought for our own comfort. And that state, of selflessness, brought on by the recognition our entire inner being and our core and our hearts wake up to, in this world too seems the seat of many a problem.

And I am afraid that after years of such sustaining unselfish love, where do we find ourselves but in this current state of poverty and concern for our own futures which we should have planned for differently in this present world....

Ah, Sancho, Sancho... we have indeed become ourselves, haven't we.... What we always feared, what we always wanted. Exactly that fine wish to do something noble and gallant and beyond ourselves, beyond our humble capabilities, but nevertheless, pulling it off, at least in some way, a little footnote to our efforts, such as they will say, 'he was a nice guy.'

Perhaps, it is simply better, dear Sancho, faithful sidekick to my foolishness, to act on one's own desires and wishes, to let other people simply deal with it, as they say... yes, I wonder...

Maybe we are better off to directly storm the castle of our fondest desires, a Crusader, setting the world aright with his sword and his lance, chasing away the selfish infidels.

Ahh, Sancho {in the mode of the turn to earthy conversations held between gentleman in the quiet of a noisy restaurant, with regard for the pleasures of lady's offerings} you know of the castle I wish to storm, that which a gentleman can take from behind without any show of cowardice.

Yes, there has to be some humor allowed in all this, as when our author, gallant old Miguel, describes as a man doing that which no other man can for him, speaking of a certain quite necessary daily bodily function, which reminds me too, of Saramago, another fine chap, god rest his soul, who describes the body as having openings and closings all of which must be in working order for life to go on.

One may pursue things either as a rich man or a poor man devoted. It's all a matter of taste, in seeing the value in that which one comes up with, one man's junk being another man's treasure. "Nothing is, but thinking makes it so," a clown says somewhere, in Hamlet, I believe, and yes, I believe.

Oh, but look at the world. Look at all the miscommunications, all the selfish desires people chase after, destroying what's left of the world, drill, baby, drill. When all of who we are really is plain old you and me, just trying to get along, cause no harm, love thy neighbor and thyself, and all that sort of thing. Woe unto the world because of offences...

It's sad to realize we all, she and I, wanted the same thing. But that I had my language and my ways, and she had hers. And here I stand before you, Mr. Sancho, and you are less a fool than I am, I really think.

Ah, Sancho... This may come as no surprise to you, this coming revelation, which is, {clears his throat--'ah hem'} that I am the biggest of fools. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted nothing from it, other than just simply doing it, whatever it was. As if it too were a bodily function necessary to the continuation of certain life forms, maybe even the entire world itself for all I know. Yes, I was thinking I was just, seamlessly, a part of the world, thus good things would come, organically, out of fulfilling the worldly function, eventually there being a transcendent purpose to it all, as I have often prayed, even as I cross myself as I leave the place where I live by the grace of God and mount my bicycle to come to work.

'Tis a world that come down hard on you, Sancho, even when they like you, the latter a sometimes secretive thing. And all I've written, I'm afraid it's not of much use. Good to move on, to do your yoga, to unblock chakras and things that have been blocked for years and years. And maybe I shall put my time to better use writing a treatise to, say, the pleasures of anal sex with my love Dulcinea, which, of course, as any writer knows, must be first researched by various stages before it may be written and find its form on paper.

What higher, what better, what more honest way is there to say "I love you," but "you're crazy!" As she in fact once plainly yelled at me. To which I said, "crazy to bring flowers to a beautiful girl," which was to say, yes, exactly, I am completely crazy, and you are in fact kind to notice that, my lovely love.

It's taken me years to get unblocked enough to realize that in all its beauty. A myriad diamond jewel of human life, so, maybe my great chivalric story A Hero For Our Time was not a complete waste of knightly time.

And with this great utterance, he drew a mandala of ketchup on a hamburger patty reheated in the toaster over, sliced an onion thinly, and moved, as he ate, chewing each bite, to get ready for work, Amen.

About Me

Gandhi tells us to be the change we want to see in the world. I wanted to see a blog on writing. Not necessarily the craft stuff, the things you could learn in a classroom, but the basic matters (and mysteries) of creativity, depth and subject matter.
I am a veteran barman of Washington, DC. My novel, A Hero For Our Time, a modern retelling of Hamlet, is available on Amazon.com. (My thanks to Mr. Lermontov, God rest his soul, for allowing me to nod to his singular classic.)
What makes writing literature? Writing will always be an art form to honor.